Press Play
by Klavierliebe
Summary: Zachary Goode plus one dead girl equals seven ink-black audiotapes, cold coffee, and a wild ride.
1. PARADISE & CAREFUL

PARADISE

* * *

"_Once upon a year gone by,_

_She saw herself give in._

_And every time she closed her eyes_

_She saw what could have been."_

* * *

The package was there.

It was propped against the door, eyeing me like a predator ogles its prey right before devouring it whole. Standard brown, square package, sealed with duct tape. My name -- _Zachary Goode_ _-- _was printed neatly with a cobalt pen, but there was no return address.

I glanced around, as if expecting the mailman to be nearby so I could ask for an explanation. What was this lousy box doing outside my door without a return address? It's not like anyone would actually be sending mail to me…right?

Rolling my emerald eyes with a heavy sigh, I scooped up the surprisingly heavy package and brought it inside, where I dumped my backpack and shoes by the couch before darting into my room. "I'm home," I mumbled quietly, half-heartedly to myself. No one else would answer, of course.

I sat down on the mahogany bed, the peculiar package cradled on my knees.

I ran a hand through my tight, chestnut-colored curls once before ripping open the package with gusto, as I quirked a grin at whatever could possibly be locked away in this cardboard box. It made me quite curious -- after all, this stuff didn't happen everyday.

What I saw, however, was nothing I could have expected.

Seven neatly stacked, ink-black audiotapes with numbers printed on the sides. One, three, five, seven, nine, eleven and thirteen. Huh? Perplexed, I flipped over the first one. The backside read 'two.'

What the…?

Was this some kind of joke? It didn't seem like something my sort-of friends from school would do -- anonymously ship me seven audiotapes? No way. Confused, but nevertheless curious, I stole across the room and slipped through the doorway, aiming to snag the old Walkman from the cupboard by the kitchen.

I popped the first tape in and settled back on the couch with anticipation. Whoever had sent me these tapes would soon be revealed, right? Yes. Yes, of course.

_Hello, Cameron Morgan here. Hopefully you haven't forgotten me yet._

My breathing hitched unceremoniously as I fumbled desperately with the _pause_ button. I wrenched the earplugs out of my cranium and sat back against the couch. My fingers trembled. You have to be kidding me -- Cameron Morgan, Cammie. No. Not her, please, _not her_, not…

Cameron Morgan was dead.

She'd killed herself.

* * *

"_She slowly swallows all her fear_

_And soothes her mind with lies._

_Well, all she wants and all she needs_

_Are reasons to survive."_

* * *

CAREFUL

* * *

"_I settle down_

_A twisted up frown_

_Disguised as a smile, well_

_You would have never known."_

* * *

_Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, God, no!_

This wasn't happening. I sprang off the couch like it was on fire and began pacing the dilapidated living room, angrily running my thin, tanned fingers through my hair. Cameron Morgan's voice simply could not be resonating from those tapes. I'd sworn…I was supposed to…

She wasn't supposed to barge back into my life like this. She was supposed to be gone.

I was hideously compelled to continue listening, so I heaved a sigh and sat back down on the couch, next to the Walkman. I glared at it, but it stayed innocently immobile. Maybe…well. I couldn't just leave them there -- couldn't just disregard them. And it was _her_ _voice_…I hadn't heard it in so long…I wanted to listen.

I pushed _play_.

_Anyway, if you're listening to this, you are inadvertently responsible for my current predicament -- AKA death. Yes, I will be dead by my own hand by the time you hear this. Yes, you caused it. You, who are probably wondering what the heck is going on here. All in good time, right? You'll stick around for the entirety of my story. I know you will._

I shivered -- an utterly uncontrollable action. Her voice was so real, so powerful, that it was easy to succumb to the complete reality of these tapes. Nothing else existed but her strong, defiant voice, pinning me to the couch with her fiery accusations.

_So, there are two rules when it comes to these tapes…my life, my story…_

_First one's obvious, guys. Listen. Listen and learn._

_Second one? Pass them along. When your name pops up…and believe me, it will…when you get an earful from me, just be prepared to finish off these lovely tapes and ship it off anonymously to the victim that appears next. The last person? You can keep it. Aw shucks -- lucky for you, huh?_

_By the way…_

_If you don't pass along the tapes…you'll regret it. If they don't make it around to all thirteen of you, if you don't stick out hearing every single word I have to say…_

_The tapes will become public._

_Someone else has a second set of these audiotapes. They will release these pretty gems out into the world, and you can watch all thirteen of your precious, shiny reputations smudge and splatter with your wrongdoings…ooh, poetic moment, huh?_

She's insane, I thought. She's gone deranged, nutters, completely bonkers…no wonder she's dead. I swallowed a lump in my throat. I could not think like that. I would go insane far before the end of these vicious tapes.

_I'll begin my story with you._

_Rebecca Baxter._

A chill spread up my spine. I knew her, of course -- everyone at Gallagher High had her name branded into their memory. Cocoa eyes, mocha hair, fiery confidence and the ability to kick anyone's butt at kickboxing…she was a force to be reckoned with, alright. What could she have possibly done to Cameron Morgan that cause her to end her own life?

_Alright, Bex. Let's do this._

_Three years ago, the first day of high school. I was just starting at Gallagher High. I had no friends here in dumpy little Roseville. Just me and my mother._

_Your locker was right next to mine._

"_Hey," you said before school, equipped with a toothy smile. "I'm Bex. Who are you?"_

_I introduced myself. "Cammie Morgan. I'm new here."_

_We shook hands and chatted our way to first period. You had almost the same schedule as me -- what a coincidence! You thought I didn't see that gleam in your eye; that too-nice, too-interested sheen in your irises. No, I saw it. I knew who you were the moment I set eyes on your glowing mocha skin and matching cocoa eyes, your purple halter tops and black skinny jeans._

_You're that girl…that girl who's never quite comfortable enough in her own skin. Everyone else is better, right? You're not the best…at anything. Fashion. Boys. Academics. Sports. Not even stamp-collecting. Nothing at all…_

_Except thievery._

My blood ran cold.

_Now, pause the story for a sec. You all should have received a map with these tapes. Go ahead -- unfurl it, and find my…our…school. It's right there, one of the many spots in town circled in dark red ink._

I instantly pressed _pause_, heaving a deep breath as if I'd just woken up suddenly from a long nap. I sprung to my feet, ripped out the earplugs and ambled back into my room. The box was still sitting there, the rest of the tapes snuggled inside. I had the sudden, provocative urge to throw the box in the nearest river. I blinked and fought it back, thinking it was too late for that now. I'd already started listening, and I was addicted.

It was then that I noticed it.

The thin slip of paper, barely visible behind the last tape. I reached out and snagged it immediately, unfolding it gently. It was a creased and slightly worn map of our little town: Roseville, Virginia. There were familiar areas circled in bright red marker. One of them -- I located it quickly -- was Gallagher High. Our, _my_, high school.

_What is this all about? _I wondered. Why was she telling us her story? I don't need this…I didn't need…

But, oh, how I did. Pressing _stop _now would be like killing Cammie myself. I couldn't do it -- quash her voice. Plus, what if her threats weren't empty? What if someone else had another copy of the tapes, waiting to release them if I didn't go through with her demands?

_Why do I care? _A tiny voice wondered. Then I reminded myself…

I had no idea what role I played in Cameron Morgan's death. _Cameron Morgan_. I would do it, because it was _her_ voice filling my head -- a voice no one thought they'd ever hear again. It was horrifying bliss to press _play._

_You see it? Gallagher Academy? Good._

I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands, clenching them into fists while resting them on my forehead. This was torture. I couldn't possibly be on these tapes, could I? What could I have done to her, really? There was nothing like…nothing…

_Now, where were we…?_

_That's right._

_Rebecca! You never thought I would find out, did you? Hahahaha._

Her chuckles were dry and cracked, echoing in my ears like a sick mantra.

_You see, Bex and I became good friends. Close, y'know. Over the years, I trusted her big time -- all our meetings at the high school, where we'd lounge around campus after hours and poke fun at anything and everything, even ourselves. You were my best friend…_

…_until you stabbed me in the back. Yeah, it hurt. Does that make you happy? Does that fill your sparkling eyes with glee and make you dance and frolic around your pristine bedroom?_

_I wonder if your sweet mother and father have any idea who you really are. Abraham, with his chocolate skipping eyes, and Marie, with her bubbly laughter. I'm sure they don't fathom who -- what -- you are inside. They adore you; heck, they adore me! Well, 'adored' me. Past tense._

There was a tug in my stomach. I had to press _pause_.

Immediately the thundering silence of my forlorn house took over. All I could hear was my galloping heartbeat, my irregular breaths. Rolling up and off the couch, I stepped purposefully out the front door -- Walkman and map in hand -- and slammed it behind me. No way was I going to stay cooped up in there while listening to this.

I idly shoved the Walkman and crinkled map into my sweatshirt pocket, hands enfolding it in a sweaty embrace. I was jumpy and twitchy -- flinching when my neighbors started up their car, and starting when a sparrow flew by my feet.

I walked the few blocks back to school. It had only ended forty five minutes ago -- _had it only been that long? _-- but it felt like hours. I slipped through the open gate and chose a lonely maple tree to settle under. The leaves were scattered on the ground around me, and I rustled their dead skins loudly when I sat down.

Oh, man. I already felt exhausted, and I hadn't even been through the first tape. How could I possibly continue this? How could I continue to listen to _her_ voice -- Cameron Morgan's -- spill out of the speakers like she hadn't gone and ended her life, just two weeks ago?

That was a hard question.

I pressed _play_.

_Rebecca, dear, let me tell you and the other people listening…let me tell you a tale of November 15__th__, junior year. Bex and I were walking home together, the misty gray clouds hovering over our heads._

_You gasped, the little intake of air startling me from my daydreams. "What's wrong?" I asked casually, not expecting it to be anything huge. What could possibly go wrong in trashy little Roseville? I'd been thinking that thought since I first moved here, freshman year._

"_I left my History textbook in my locker -- Mr. Solomon said we're having a quiz tomorrow! I have to go back and get it!" You were paranoid, cocoa eyes huge and eyebrows knitted together with stress. "But I have to be at my mother's restaurant by three o' clock!"_

"_I'll get it," I volunteered helpfully. Why not? I could use the exercise._

_You instantly shut down. Your shoulders slumped, and you fidgeted uncomfortably in your glimmering, designer shoes. "No, that's all right, Cam. I'll head back myself, you go home."_

_Hmm. Pretty suspicious -- not to mention cold. Thanks for that, by the way._

"_Seriously, Bex, it's no problem. I can run down there and be back in twenty minutes--"_

_You cut me off with a roll of your beautiful brown eyes. "Cammie!" You snapped, and I flinched. "I'll get it myself. There's no need for you to be poking around in my locker."_

_With that, you turned tail and fled back toward the school._

_So, of course I followed you. I was confused (and a bit hurt), and I wanted to know why exactly you'd blown me off. You can all understand that, right? Digging deeper to understand why your friend hurt you? You should. You all should understand perfectly._

What did Bex do to her? I wondered. Sure, I'd heard the rumors about Rebecca Baxter -- everyone had. She was the second-most popular girl in school, trumped only by Macey McHenry. I was intrigued.

_You didn't even notice me._

_I felt kind of like a stalker, and I almost turned around. But then I saw your eyes again: shadowed as you snapped at me, cold and afraid. I wanted to help you. I watched as you spun the dial of your locker, just like everyday, and opened it._

_I never realized, until that moment, that I'd never quite seen the inside of your locker. You always hid the inside with your body, your hands, the locker door._

_I understand why now._

_Peeking around your shoulder, I craned my neck to see what exactly was locked away in there…and I saw them. Items -- everyday stuff. Articles of clothing, notes, cell phones, makeup, jewelry, shoes, backpacks…all shoved into a huge mass that stretched to the top of your locker. Only problem?_

_They weren't yours._

_I saw Grant Newman's binder and his favorite track shoes, Liz Sutton's butterfly hair clip and English scribbles, DeeDee Foster's lip gloss and love notes, Josh Abram's crappy old cell phone and gym shorts -- followed by more junk that I didn't recognize._

_Not to mention there, right on top of that glorious mountain, was something I never thought I'd see again. Something I'd told you about, numerous times, and showed you in solemn moments. Something I kept on me at all times, until it went missing one day at the Roseville skating rink. You were there with me. The last thing my dad gave me before he left..._

_A simple, silver chain._

I pressed _pause_, trying to digest what my deceased peer was explaining. Rebecca Baxter, the exotic British girl who'd transferred before junior high, who most people respected and/or feared -- stealing? Had she stolen anything from me? Shivers overtook me as I thought of how many people had already heard these tapes, had already listened to Cammie strip Bex down until she was nothing more than a mindless thief.

That made me wonder, yet again, when my name would appear.

Standing up, I stretched my already sore muscles and glanced around. The school was pretty much empty -- there were a couple of lazy freshman strolling by the gym, and a secretary was click-clacking on high heels back to the office. The sun was slamming yellow-orange beams of light all around me, and a breeze tickled my hair. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, breathing out deeply.

_Oh, Cammie, _I thought, lounging over to a bench by my third period. I plopped down and hesitated, finger over the play button. I shook my head sadly -- this was pathetic of me -- and pressed _play_.

_You stole it from me._

_Instead of backing away like I should have, I stepped out from where I'd been cowering around a corner, to where you could see me clearly. When you heard my quiet footsteps, your head snapped up warily. Our eyes met…and you shut your locker, textbook in hand…and walked right over to me._

"_Bex--" I started, but you didn't let me finish. You never let me finish._

"_Don't even start, Cam. I thought I told you to go home?" Were those tears really stinging your eyes, or was that my wild imagination?_

I fingered the Walkman idly. Cammie's voice was cracked and broken, as if reliving this experience was not a pleasant thing. I could see why.

"_You did," I muttered. "But--"._

"_So…you didn't. 'Cause why? Don't think I can handle myself? Don't trust me, do you?" You were enraged -- you knew I'd seen everything, and you were stark raving mad about it. I was more shocked than anything; my best friend was a thief. Immediately, I wanted to understand. I wanted to figure out why you of all people -- the only one to really see me in years -- would resort to this._

"_Why did you take all those things? Why do you have my necklace?" I asked, stung that you'd stolen my cherished piece of jewelry. Your locker was like a lost and found, full of the student body's favorite items. You nicked them all, didn't you? Every…single…one._

"_I'm sorry, Cammie, but that necklace is mine -- you must be confused," you said. Your voice was like icicles hanging in the air between us, and your eyes…such beautiful eyes…froze over when you shoved past me._

_You never spoke to me again, Rebecca Baxter._

_Not directly, at least. You lost me, your nobody best friend, and went on to bigger and better things. Don't worry, though. Your name will come back up…just later in the story. Many tapes away._

_Not many of you know what comes next, after Rebecca Baxter threw me away and left me to rot. According to most of you, I disappeared off the radar for a while. A few of you know the truth, though, because one of you was the one to unintentionally pick me up and dust me off -- though you didn't try. You didn't try for much of those days._

_Yeah, DeeDee. You're next._

I stopped the audiotape.

I took a deep breath. _She's dead_, I thought. She's really dead. And yet….she'd recorded these messages for me…us…oh, man. If there was one thing I wanted more then anything, it would be to scream so loud that everyone could hear how much I _hated_ Cameron Ann Morgan at this moment.

I hated how she'd sent me these tapes. I hated how she'd left me, left us, hated how she was patiently showing me the real side of Roseville -- the side no one else saw but her. I hated how she was right. She was always right.

I flipped the tape over and pressed _play_.

* * *

"_Open your eyes_

_Like I opened mine_

_It's only the real world_

_Life you will never know."_


	2. MISERY

MISERY

* * *

"_Look at all these happy people,_

_Living their lives_

_Look at all these plastic people,_

_There's nothing inside."_

* * *

_DeeDee Fosters._

_I wish I could say I hate you, I really do. It just doesn't work that way, though. No one is immune to your cuteness. No one can hate you. Not even me, Cameron Morgan, and I'm dead! Hahh. Well, not yet, anyway. Soon enough._

I resisted the urge to throw the Walkman as hard and as far as I could. Instead, I just let my ruffled head of dark brown hair fall back against the bench, sighing.

_Anyway, if you'll be so kind as to take a peek at your maps, you'll see another spot highlighted in red. The old coffee place, by the movie theaters? Yeah, that's it. That's where I first talked to DeeDee Fosters._

I pressed _pause_, fumbling in my pocket for the map. My hands were shaking, highlighted by the bleeding rays of the setting sun. As I unfurled it, my eyes roamed the paper before coming to a stop on Foster's Coffeehouse. It was the only coffee shop in town, run by the one and only Mr. and Mrs. Foster. DeeDee's parents.

I stood up from my position on the bench, surprised by the sudden weakness in my knees. I hadn't even realized they'd been shaking, and now they were stretched like jelly. Taking a shuddering breath, I glanced around to see if anyone had spotted me -- alas, the school grounds were despondent and vacant.

Shoving my Walkman and map into my pocket, I discovered the gates were still open and slunk out with my head down. My shadow was long and broad-shouldered, revealing the way I sort-of hunched over as I walked -- guilty for listening to the dead girl's words. I didn't want anyone to see me, to suspect what I had been doing.

_I should've brought all the tapes, _I reprimanded myself. _Now I'll have to go home and pick up the rest. _A tiny thought, in the back of my head, suggested that I didn't have to follow Cammie's voice wherever it lead me. I could just stay home, hole up in my room, and listen to the tapes. However, I squashed this voice; I knew what I wanted -- the full experience of her life. I wanted to be as close to her as I could get -- was that so wrong?

It was a short walk to Foster's Coffeehouse. Of course, _everything_ was a short walk away in Roseville. That was another highly bothersome trait about our infinitesimal town -- it was extremely, insignificantly tiny. I'd arrived within minutes, and I opened the door with a feeling of nostalgia; everyone in the town had been here at _least _once.

It was warm inside, as if the stocky building was anticipating the evening chill that would soon set in. It smelled like fresh pastries and pungent coffee beans, sounded like shoes on linoleum and the cash register clanging open. DeeDee Fosters herself lounged behind the counter, downcast eyes focused on her pretty, magenta-colored nails.

I resisted the urge to duck back out of the store. How was I supposed to face DeeDee while listening to her tape? What if she was the one who sent it to me, and she knew everything by just glancing at the Walkman? I couldn't handle that.

_Just shut up and move forward, _I ordered myself, and was half-surprised when my feet were instantly mobile again. As I approached the mocha-dabbled counter, DeeDee's baby blue eyes shot up to my face. They widened when she caught sight of me -- Zachary Goode. Zach who she'd known since…well, the years tended to blur together, but we'd known each other a very long time. Zachary Goode with the long-sleeved shirts and jeans, Zachary Goode with the infamous smirk, Zachary Goode with the final declaration of a deceased girl clutched in his pocket.

That was me.

"Double latte, please," I muttered, not meeting her eyes. My feet scuffled against the ground as her cheeks turned pink and she nodded, whipping around to shakily fix the order. Her teensy frame was, as usual, curled into herself: hunched shoulders, skittish eyes, toes angled together. What was unusual, however, was the little things: her frizzy, lemon-colored hair, rumpled skirt, and heavy, mute silence. _What has Cammie done to her?_

DeeDee slid the latte towards me, and I took it gratefully. I handed her the money, and was puzzled when she snatched it quickly, refusing to acknowledge me any more then necessary. How odd, I thought as I mumbled, "Thanks," and took a seat at an empty table near the back.

Reclining in my chair, I tried to ignore DeeDee's fiery stare at the back of my head. Warming my hands around the double latte, I glanced out the window. The sun had just set, leaving the sky a beautiful orange-blue color. Hastily, I stuffed the ear buds into my ears. This has to be unhealthy -- my addiction to these tapes. I pressed _play _anyway.

_Now, DeeDee Annemarie Fosters is someone not everyone knows: she's not too popular, not too much of a loner, not artsy enough to be an art nerd, doesn't play an instrument like the band geeks…there is absolutely nothing that sets her apart, right?_

_Wrong._

_DeeDee, I'm sure you know what I'm going to say. You hear it a thousand times each day, from the people who actually pay attention to you. All the teachers, adults, random old ladies, and every peer who's spoken to you in the seventeen years you've lived in this town. _

_They all say the same thing:_

"…_oh, DeeDee's so kind!"_

"…_DeeDee? DeeDee Fosters? She's adorable; I love that little girl."_

"…_that chick's sweet, man."_

_Oh, DeeDee, blah, blah, blah! You're so adorable-cute-sweet-nice-kind-selfless-generous! It disgusted me, how this seemed to be all you were known for. You couldn't possibly be that good, could you, DeeDee? Could you?_

It was true. I'd heard it all before, as one of the many kids who'd lived in Roseville my entire life. Actually, that last quote had sounded suspiciously like a rip-off of Grant Newman. I sipped the latte and decided that I would not, under any circumstances, glance over to the counter.

_Let's find out…_

_It was November, and it was raining. My mom was out running errands, so I used this time to stop by Foster's Coffeehouse. I'd been ogling it for days, but today was the first time I could find an excuse to slip away…and DeeDee, I must say, your coffeehouse is cozy. I'm sitting in it right now, actually, as I'm recording this…near the back…by a window…where I don't have to meet your eyes…_

My hands turned to lead. What if she had been sitting here, in this very seat? What if she had been looking out the same window, her breath misty against the glass as she voiced her story? I gulped down my latte to fight back the trembling, but it didn't stop the pang of nausea.

_I recognized you from school, so I introduced myself when I ordered. Figured I might as well strike up a conversation -- what the heck? I had nothing to lose. "Mocha latte, please. I'm Cammie."_

_You looked at me with your big, blue eyes and a tentative smile crept across your face as you prepared my coffee. I remember your hair that day -- two short, identical pigtails. It was adorable, of course. You were never anything less._

"_Hi, Cammie. I'm DeeDee," you replied smoothly, quietly. Your voice was high and honey-like, so sweet I could hardly stand to listen to you open your mouth. At the time, however, I didn't think it was too annoying -- I found it almost endearing, as I did many of your quirks._

_We chatted -- schoolwork, teachers, yadda, yadda. Completely safe topics. You were the first person who didn't flake out on me after the whole Bex incident -- people had talked about it; they couldn't fathom why the mocha-skinned beauty had abandoned me, the mysterious and sort-of new girl who no one else really knew. There were rumors. Nasty ones, usually centered around a victim-Bex and handing me a bad connotation. DeeDee didn't acknowledge them…or even seem to care. I guess I'm grateful for that._

_Coincidentally, the next day Mr. Solomon assigned a partner-assignment. He'd chosen the partners. As only Mr. Solomon can do, he set the exact trends that would arch and tangle together over our last two years of high school._

_I hope you all remember who your partner was…especially you, DeeDee, because it was me._

I remember that. It was a horrible project -- going into a bunch of detailed mumbo-jumbo on the ancient Egyptians. Everyone had hated History class for those four weeks, me included. My partner was Dillon: a scrawny, blonde guy whom I haven't talked to since.

_I offered to do that first half -- the harder section, I must point out -- and left you with the artsy, easy stuff. You agreed politely, stretching a smile onto your lips. It didn't reach your eyes, though; it was clear to me you hated this. But, you continued to talk to me as if I was a long-lost BFF…at least, when someone was looking. Our peers would glance at us from the corner of their eyes (whether to cheat, gossip, or something else, I wouldn't know) and you'd tilt your head and smile. Bite your lip and giggle._

_It was all a ruse. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was rational at all. Your voice was as fake as Bex's cocoa locks of hair. It was disgusting, how you treated me so lowly. I don't fancy people who slather me up just to keep their reputation squeaky-clean._

_It hurts, DeeDee._

I almost lost it right then. The tug of my eyes, aching to land on DeeDee Fosters, was unbearable. I wanted so much to stand up, throw my coffee on the floor, and ask the pretty blonde how she could do that, how could she do that to Cammie?

_We stayed like that for a while -- me visiting your Coffeeshop when I got the chance. (Hey, the coffee was great. Let me tell you, I'm missing it right about…now, wherever I am in the land of the lifeless.) As long as someone who mattered was around, particularly one of our classmates, you'd speak to me in high, dreamy tones and chatter on about optimistic crap. At school, we would sit faux laughter and dull sapphires._

_Until I finally had enough beating around the bush._

_It was around dinnertime. My mother was busy cooking something-or-other, so I walked down to Foster's Coffeeshop. It was clear you weren't going to step forward and explain your mood-swing-like behavior, so I would inquire about it myself._

I sipped the coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter, just the way it should be.

"_Hey, DeeDee," I said. You were cheerily wiping down the counter, scrubbing away coffee drops and doughnut crumbs with a gusto that almost surprised me._

"_Hi, Cammie!" You twittered, beaming shyly and shuffling your feet like you oh-so-adorably do. It made me a little nauseous and left me craving anything but sugar. I leaned against the counter, picking at a loose thread on my shirt._

"_Well," I started. You didn't hear the change in my voice. "I was wondering, DeeDee…why exactly do you act so fake around me?"_

Yes, DeeDee. I was wondering that, too -- _why_ do you have such a mask? I've known you for years. Is your act of politeness completely faux?

_You slowed down, the last chestnut circle abandoned. Fiddling with the damp rag, you avoided my eyes as your shoulders hunched together. You shook your head swiftly, making your pigtails fly. "I'm not fake, Cammie, I'm actually your friend."_

What?

_Are you serious, DeeDee? Do you think I'm that much of a fool, that I fell for that? Sure, you've got a mighty reputation, according to anyone who cares. That doesn't mean you have to become such an unbelievable phony to live up to it._

_I shook my head. "That's not it, DeeDee."_

Oh, man. How does she -- Cameron Morgan -- understand people this well? That girl with the medium-colored hair and pretty eyes, average height and nothing striking about her. She reads people from the sidelines with an ability so uncanny it's scary.

_It all came down to her pretty little reputation -- of course it did. She looked at me, right in the eyes, for the first time that day and nodded. "I know," she whispered, like a needy flower clothed in frost._

_And then I understood._

_You built that reputation, DeeDee, because that's who you _want_ to be. Perhaps, inside, you think cruel thoughts and kick puppies or something. On the outside, though, the only thing you've got going for you is how perfectly agreeable you can p-r-e-t-e-n-d to be. You feed off that. You project that image, but it's all a fake -- you were only civil to me to make sure people didn't think you were acting unpleasantly._

_You're just choking on your rep., DeeDee._

The little click, signifying the end of the tape, rang in my ears. DeeDee Fosters, just like Rebecca Baxter, had been stripped down to her essence. The coffee morphed to frozen ashes and I had difficulty swallowing the last gulp. Heaving a sigh and rubbing my hands, I saw that the sun had officially gone down and the sidewalk through the glass doors was swathed in shadow.

I tossed my empty cup away and, using all my self-control, rejected the urge to glance over at the counter. I couldn't stand the broken look of the meek blonde, cowering behind the register.

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stepped out into the chilly night air. The streetlights flickered on as I stepped down the empty, paved sidewalk. I had to go back to my house, to retrieve the rest of my tapes. Hopefully no one would be home, and I'd have an easy trip.

Hopefully.

* * *

"_Look at all these shallow people,_

_Telling their lies._

_Look at all these empty people."_


	3. TIME AFTER TIME

TIME AFTER TIME

* * *

"_Watching_

_Through windows_

_You're wondering_

_If I'm okay."_

* * *

As it was, my parental figure had yet to return home -- therefore, it was a piece of cake to pop back into my room and shove the rest of the tapes into my dark sweatshirt pocket. I blatantly refused to acknowledge the fact that my fingers were trembling. _Just keep moving, Zach, _I chanted. Two stories down. Eleven to go -- and one of them was me.

I fumbled with the Walkman, jamming the next tape in and shakily pressing _play_.

_I wish I could turn invisible._

She was harsh and loud in my ear, speaking with a bitterness that surprised me for a moment. This tape wouldn't end well, would it? Then again, none of them did…

_Doesn't it sound like fun? To be able to disappear into your surroundings, whenever you wanted? I'd love that. No one would ever notice me -- I'd stay lost forever. Besides, I've learned it's better to not even be a blip on the radar. If you never exist in the first place, will anyone notice when you're gone?_

Shutting the door behind me, I forced myself to relax and ducked out onto the sidewalk. No way was I going to stick around; he could be home at any minute, and I wanted to be alone. Abruptly, I flashed back in time…the day we discovered Cammie's final act. I wanted to be alone then, too, but I didn't get my wish.

_DeeDee still acted pleasant to me -- when someone was looking, of course. She was the only human contact I had at school, minus the teachers. Bex surely didn't acknowledge me, and I was far too wary to approach any of my classmates myself; if I did that, it would mean that I, dear Cammie, am courageous! Which…I'm not. Everyone will see that. As soon as word gets out about my…_

I swallowed hard. Your what, Cammie? Say it. Say it, say it, please, oh please just spit it out. I want to hear that poisonous word slip from between your lips like --

…_current predicament, anyway. Now that it's been established that I am a coward, let us move along to the next sucker who ripped off my life: Grant Anthony Newman. Coincidentally, the favorite boy-toy of a certain Rebecca Baxter. Isn't that adorable?_

_There's no real circle on your map for this tape. It's sort-of filled in around our school…like crimson-marker mist, stretching a bit down the sidewalk to my house. Darkest in the parking lot. You see it, right?_

She laughed, and I smoothed out the Roseville map. Our school again? No way did I want to go back there. It'd be empty and derelict; nowhere I'd want to hang around.

_It was the day that our large History project was finally due that you first spoke to me, Grant. The sun was hot and I remember exactly what I was wearing…a v-neck with a stylish undershirt and shorts. You found that appealing, yes? I would assume so. That's the only reason I can fathom for your lack of eyeball control._

I almost choked on air. Grant Newman, quarterback on the football team since his sophomore year, eyeballing Cammie like a piece of meat? Roseville High sure isn't what I thought it was -- but of course, nothing ever is. Shivering, I decided to lope on by Cammie's house. Why not? It was better then the high school.

"_Hey, Morgan!" You yelled from somewhere behind me._

_I glanced back, surprised. You were there, wielding your quarterback jersey like a golden, cloth trophy and waving your tan hand at me. I slowed my pacing as you dodged some nerdy freshman to catch up with me. The final bell had just rung, and I was planning to leave for the day…but of course, you stopped me._

"_Hey…Grant, right?" I asked. That was a ruse; I knew exactly who you were._

_You nodded, flashing me a proud grin. "Yeah, that's me," you paused, falling into step beside me as I stepped out the doors of the high school. "Hey, weren't you, uh, close to Bex?"_

_Way to be subtle, Grant._

Did Bex put him up to this?

_I was caught off guard, blinking in surprise. "Yeah," I said. Yeah. I'd been close to Bex. We were best friends -- don't you all remember? I hope so. Wouldn't want you to have selective amnesia!_

_As I was saying…Grant. You asked me, oh-so-unobtrusively, "What happened to you guys?"_

Bex must have put him up to this. She never struck me as crafty enough to use someone other then her boyfriend for info anyway…besides, why would Grant care about anything? The only thing Grant Newman is concerned with is whether or not his current s-l-u-t of the week is making out with him.

_What was I supposed to tell you? I couldn't ruin Bex's image; that's absolutely unthinkable. (Huh.) So I shrugged loftily and said, "I don't know." Grant almost made it sound like we were in a relationship that didn't last. Sorry to disappoint anyone, but I don't roll that way._

I couldn't help the strained laugh. It echoed, a release of pressure from deep inside me, around the dark street. Cameron Morgan lived just up the road. She'd taken this path a countless number of times, journeying to and from school. My eyes were glued to the concrete, where my feet scuffed like metronomes along the sidewalk.

Maybe the soles of her shoes had matched mine.

Maybe she was walking with me.

Maybe…

_You weren't satisfied._

"_Nah, seriously, Cam," you scoffed, as if flashing your cheeky, too-white grin would change my mind. "I was just arguing with Bex about it. I want the full story -- you weren't the bad guy, were you?"_

_What a suck-up. As if you could flex your muscles, wink your eyes, compliment me and take my side, and I would fall all over you. Newsflash, Grant: Girls do have brains. And they're not completely filled with butterflies and rainbows and posters of hot movie stars. At least -- most of them aren't. I'm not so sure about some of you listening…but we'll get to that later, right? Yeah._

"_I don't think that's any of your business," I said. No way did I want to discuss Bex, my bandit ex-BFF, with you of all people. You'd be running back to her to mock me before I could say 'psych!'_

_That's where it gets interesting._

_You were exasperated. You were fed up with my closed-off attitude, which is something that's probably new to you. So, you resorted to what you're best at: flirting with and unsettling girls. I was your latest target._

I had a bad feeling about this. If he did anything to her, I didn't care if she'd never know, I'd slug him into next week. I mean, I understand the flirting, but with Cammie Morgan? He didn't even know her. He'll _never_ even know her, not now…

_Step one: Carefree laugh. We were strolling along the sidewalk directly in front of the school, and a few peers within earshot turned to glance at us curiously, as if wondering what Grant Newman was doing talking to me. Laughing with me._

_Step two: Arm around shoulders. After your chuckle, you shook your head, amused. Then, you slung your muscled arm around my thin shoulders casually. As if you'd done this every day of your life. As if it was routine._

_Step three: Lean over and murmur. You pressed your nose into my hair with a youthful smirk and whisper-pleaded, "It can be our little secret, Cam." I stepped away, rattled by your proximity and irritated by your perseverance -- I obviously didn't want to tell you. Not to mention, was it just me or were you hitting on me? Gross. You have a girlfriend, remember? Yeah. Miss British-Wannabe-Baxter._

_Sure, you're cute, Grant. I can't deny that. Grant Newman, quarterback on the football team, with ashy brown hair, deep eyes and bulging biceps. What's not to like? Oh, yeah…your obliviously arrogant personality._

_Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. I couldn't take it. You were, to put it plainly, aggravating me to the point of no return. I was not one of your ditzy mallrats, alright? I am Cameron Ann Morgan, I thought. Who were you to attempt flirtatious movements on me for information?_

"_I have to go," I muttered abruptly._

_Okay, not exactly a spectacular exit. But, it made you pause long enough so that I could slip down the sidewalk and whip around corner. Meanwhile, I presumed you were still trying to fathom how on Earth a girl had defied your charms. I resisted the urge to start running past the humble adobes and leave you eating my dust -- that would seem cowardly. You gave me such bad vibes, though, Grant. I knew you weren't good news._

Here it is. Cammie's house…her old house, that is.

I've seen it before, of course. This town is so frustratingly small, I'd ridden my bike down each of these streets so many times I could rattle off homeowners and addresses from memory. Cammie's (previous) house was a pretty single-story with large, dark windows and springy green grass. It was painted a cheery, burnt chestnut and the driveway was empty. Where was her mother?

_Turns out, I was right._

_You started following me, Grant._

_Before school, you'd pace around my first period, blowing it off as hanging around with some buddies and chatting it up. I knew better. You lingered after the first bell, until I passed by, and made direct eye contact with me consistently. I saw you in the halls ten times more then I'd ever noticed before. After school, you walked about thirty feet behind me until I turned that same corner down the sidewalk. _

_I admit it, you were intimidating me. Provoking me._

_After two weeks of your stalking, I decided to confront you._

I don't want to stand here, on the dreary sidewalk outside her vacant house. Especially not when now, according to the tape I was listening to, she's about to defy Grant Newman and his pursuing tendencies. So, I turned around and ambled back the way I'd come. What a pointless trip. What a pointless…

_I lingered by the parking lot after school -- around the area where you usually detach yourself from your guffawing, football-playing buddies and stride down the cement to follow me. You saw me immediately, ashy eyes flashing. Skipping out on your buddies, you jogged over with an air of triumph about you…you thought you'd won._

_But I'm not going down without a fight._

She whispered that last line, and goose bumps swept up my arm. I couldn't tell if they were from the chilly night air I was currently stationed in, or the serenely sinister tone of Cammie's voice. I didn't really want to know.

"_Grant," I began smoothly. "Stop following me."_

_Alright, so I could have been slightly more subtle. But I honestly didn't feel like dancing around the subject with Grant Newman: Master of Irritation and Underestimation. I'd prefer it if we just got this conversation over with and went on with our lives, minus the entire 'stalking' bit. _

_You paused for a moment, as if contemplating how to respond. After apparently making a decision, you leaned casually against the chain-link fence bordering the school and the parking lot. "I'm sorry, Cam. I just want to get to know you," you admitted, spreading out your palms out innocently and giving me the puppy-dog plead. You waited patiently for my response._

_Me? I was considering taking that as a compliment or writing you off as an insane, shadow-like teenager with a vanity problem._

_I chose the second option, mostly because of your consistently lowering eyes._

"_I don't think you want to get to know me. You want your information, maybe a little fun, but then you'll bolt straight back to Baxter. It's not your concern what happened to me and Bex, and if she put you up to this, tell her to shut up! She better not forget what I know, tell her that, tell her…" I was overly worked-up now, tears stinging my eyes. I fought them back, took a deep breath, and finished. "And you stop ogling me like a slab of meat!"_

You _tell_ him, Cammie. Give him a piece of your mind. If anyone deserves to be knocked down a peg, it's him -- and if I could do it myself, I would. I would do it for you, Cammie. I would…wait…

_I turned around and stumbled away, refusing to look back but not missing his flabbergasted expression. That was probably the first time I'd ever raised my voice at anyone, let alone a hot -- but seriously aggravating -- guy. I don't know why I did it; I wasn't even that angry. I guess…in the heat of the moment, fuming about Bex and her betrayal, how boorish Grant acted…all the pent-up words exploded._

_I didn't regret it._

_Especially not when you stopped following me, Grant._

The click of the end of the tape was barely audible in my ears, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Yes. One more story down -- that's three now, correct? In his tape, Grant had been made out as simple-minded and perverted, someone who got under Cammie's skin enough to make her squirm. (Jerk.) I'm really hoping mine will not turn out that way…but hey, on the flip side, I never behaved in such a way towards Cammie.

I hardly talked to her, in fact…

Popping in the next tape, I settled onto a green bus stop bench. It was sufficiently dark and exceedingly chilly outside, but the flickering streetlamp illuminated enough road for me to feel content. I pressed _play_.

* * *

"_After_

_My picture fades_

_And darkness has_

_Turned to gray."_


	4. ONE DAY

ONE DAY

* * *

"_One day, you'll fall down,_

_And there won't be anyone_

_To pick you up again."_

* * *

_Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack._

The sound of computer keys.

_Hello everyone. N__ice to hear from you again. I hope you're doing well? You're not quite traumatized yet, are you? I sincerely hope not - because the worst is still to come._

Her voice was soft, gentle, as if she was whispering.

_Huh._

Her breath caught and I stiffened.

_Shhh! The librarian is coming…_

There was a long pause, full of almost-static.

_Ah. There we go, alone again. I so like the library. It's quiet, peaceful, and somewhere I can go to relax and catch up on both my imaginary worlds__ and reality. At least, that's what it used to be….red circle number three on your maps. The Roseville public library - the only one in town. Go ahead and take a look, yes?_

I slumped back against the filthy bench, digging out the map. I knew where the library was, but I still stared at the circle around it for what seemed like years, trying to memorize how exactly the curves of her wrist had managed the exquisitely perfect oval.

_Alright._

_Here we go - getting a little bit more personal._

_I had a social networking site account. I'm not telling which website; you wouldn't be able to find me anyway. I deleted the user after things started going__ downhill. But__ this account was something I enjoyed accessing. No, I didn't have many friends on it. Most people at Roseville didn't even realize I had one, let alone what my username or icon was - but I had fun playing the pointless, unrealistic games._

_Unfortunately, someone did make the connection._

_Jonas Mackie._

Jonas Mackie.

Perhaps the most mysterious guy at Roseville High. Inky black hair, dorky glasses, azure eyes, and one heck of a brain. Honestly, the only thing I was sure about him was how scarily smart he was. Top marks in every class, head of the chess team, computer whiz…all that and more. He was loner who hardly talked to anyone. Jonas Mackie, what on Earth have you gotten yourself into?

_We became 'friends' on this site. He sent me a request; I accepted. No big deal. Whatever. That is, until a bit later. I was lounging in the library, you see, on this social networking site, and I caught sight of something quite a few of my 'friends' had recently paid attention to. A strange group of some sort._

I stood up from my uncomfortable spot on the bench. The library wouldn't be open now. It was around eight o' clock, but I could sit on the chilly stone steps. No one would ever know I was there. Correction - no one would _care _if I was there. Standard Roseville.

_This group was oddly titled 'Revelation of Roseville High'_

Oh, no.

No way.

I was exceedingly lucky the road was empty that night, because when she pronounced _that _name I stumbled on air and went crashing to the ground. The harsh, ink-colored street caught me and I blinked at the streetlight-illuminated concrete for a moment, sucking in a deep breath. My fingers trembled over the grit. Revelation of Roseville High. I'd heard of it. I knew of it - of course I did, who didn't? I should've known this would come up, as soon I heard the first tape.

_I made the mistake of clicking on it._

_A picture of our tiny, dingy high school was stationed on the page, along with a list of all the juniors in alphabetical order. The first name I read, Dillon Antonio, was tacked underneath a small school picture of a sandy-blonde that I recognized from class. Sucks to be first, right, Dillon? You would certainly know, Bex…Anyway, there were a few short sentences underneath the kid's name._

_The exact words have blurred from my memory, sadly, but I'm sure you all remember the gist of it. Embarrassing stories, mortifying 'fun' facts, humiliating statistics...__you name it. There was a list of them underneath every name, every face. I scrolled down, nobly bypassing all the juicy gossip of my peers, until I got to Cameron Morgan._

The breeze picked up for a moment and, in between the shady rustles of trees and hoots of owls, I shivered. Was it just me, or did the stars seem dimmer?

_There was my school picture, taken for my I.D. card when I first moved to town. I was smiling impishly and an invisible breeze was blowing my hair to perfection - not. Not even! I was actually looking somewhere to the right of the camera, somewhere off in the distance. My hair was flat, as it always is, and my smile was as fake as DeeDee Fosters. I hate that picture. Of course, don't we all hate school pictures?_

_I read the words, the sentences, the paragraph underneath my name slowly. I digested it thoroughly, because I wanted to remember this declaration for the rest of my life - and I knew whatever had been typed upon this page would be huge and ominous; I could tell from the prickles on the back of my neck, the nauseous quickening of my heartbeat, the ghastly chill of my palms. This would change my life._

It changed most of our lives, Cammie; at least a little bit. You're not alone. But if you knew that…you'd still be here, wouldn't you?

_I can recite what it said from memory now, so I'll go ahead and tell you: "Cameron Morgan. Transferred to Roseville High in her junior year. Flunked an art class in the eighth grade. Father died in a military accident back in '06. Voted 'Least Popular' in her freshman year for being 'quiet, predictable, and utterly boring.' Carries a book filled with ugly doodles and shallow poems with her wherever she goes. " _

_That's it, word for word._

_That's what Jonas Mackie said about me._

Jonas made that group. _Jonas. _It makes sense now…no one would suspect him. No one would ever think about targeting him. What a jerk - a jerk, but a genius. How in the world did he get all of that information? More importantly, how did he get _my _information? I stepped onto the curb and blinked at the dark library steps. Settling down upon them, I rested my hands on the chilly concrete. The gravel stung my palms when I applied pressure.

_Yes, you heard me right. Jonas is the one who made that group about all of us. He's the one who ripped us down, shamed us, humiliated us in front of other people…oh. Well I sound a bit hypocritical__. Hahaha. After all, aren't I doing the same thing with these tapes?_

_Maybe. Maybe I am._

_But these aren't public, not yet. They never will be unless one of you screw up. No pressure, though, right? Just twelve other people caught in the balance of your dizzy decisions. But that's not the point. How do I know Jonas is the one who created that site? Coincidence. Purely coincidence…_

Is there any such thing as coincidence?

_You all know how the group was shut down after a while? Well there's a story behind that, too. It all started in my History class - Mr. Solomon asked me to send the attendance up to the secretary. I did it quietly, enjoying the few peaceful moments it took to walk from the classroom to the office._

_The secretary wasn't there when I arrived. Her too-cheery desk had accumulated __a new potted plant since I'd last seen it, and the bulb in her lamp was flickering. I could hear my heartbeat in the peaceful silence - until it was interrupted by a muffled voice._

_Alright, so it was my own curiosity that led me down the start of this path. I tuned into the voice, and followed it down an empty, tiny corridor branching off from the main office. It was intimidating, and I quickly realized this was on purpose; the door at the end of the hall was the principal's office. Dr. Buckingham. Cue the horror music…_

I know that hallway. I've been down it my fair share of times - everyone has. Dr. Buckingham, or Patricia as some of the bolder kids like to say, enjoys meeting with all of the students for various reasons. Especially good grades. A techie like Jonas must have lived in her office.

_I should have stopped then. I shouldn't have hesitated; I should've turned around and bolted, but there was no one around and my prying nature got the best of me. I snuck up to the closed door and hovered next to it, wondering if it would look too horrible if I pressed my ear to the wood. Considering I didn't want to get detention, I opted for just old-fashioned eavesdropping - without sticking my earlobe__ against the door._

"_-serious consequences," Dr. Buckingham was saying, "I don't think you realize just how far you've gone with this website, Mr. Mackie. Disregarding how on Earth you got this information in the first place…"_

Excellent, Cammie. Eavesdropping on the principal's private meetings, are you? I couldn't help the devilish smile that spread up my face, creating a faux sense of warmth from the chilly night.

_That stewed around in my brain slowly. Did she say Mr. Mackie? I knew who that was. Jonas Mackie, resident techie with the dark hair and bright eyes, the one no one really knew much about….which is very, very odd in a town like this. Huh. Strange, Jonas, right? I was so caught up in my thoughts that before I knew it, the sound of rustling cloth and scraping chair was resonating from behind the closed door._

An unfamiliar car rolled down the street. The headlights were on, shooting beams of light onto the desolate road. I would've curled up tighter into a ball, but a few stray bruises on my back moaned weakly in protest.

_I jerked away like I'd been burned. Run!, I thought, but of course my feet weren't quite fast enough. Whipping around the corner, I settled in front of the secretary's desk like I'd been lounging there the entire time. Jonas and Dr. Buckingham entered, the latter shooting me a fake smile. "What did you need, dear?"_

_I couldn't answer at first. The attendance list was still crumpled in my fist, folding in on itself as I self-consciously tilted my chin up further to meet her eyes. The burn of Jonas's stare was slicing ribbons in my concentration, but I managed to murmur, "Attendance from Mr. Solomon."_

_She thanked me and took the paper, turning away. "You may go, Mr. Mackie," she added with a sharp, sidelong glance at the bespectacled teenager. My brain, meanwhile, was practically dysfunctional. __Jonas Mackie made that site. He ripped down the entire junior class, including himself! What kind of person does that? What kind of person could tear someone down…and not even care?_

_Well here's your answer, folks: The same kind of person who would blackmail a defenseless teenage girl._

The night was still and silent as she paused, as if the entire library building was holding its breath until she continued. I rubbed away a cramp in my hand and drew a shuddering sigh. Blackmail. How much worse could this story really get? I wanted to know…yes, it was twisted and wrong, but I wanted to hear the rest of Cammie's oh-so-tragic life.

_You heard me right. Blackmail._

_I don't know how you got that information, Jonas. I really, really, don't - but judging by the searing stares you shot my direction that day in the office, you were under the impression I knew more then I was letting on. So, I'll take it you saw fit to use your sneaky, slimy powers of information-sucking to interrogate me. You wanted to know what I'd overheard. I wanted to know how many dirty little tricks were up your sleeve for you to be so paranoid about._

_Apparently a lot._

_Somehow…you knew my schedule, you got my address, you emailed me, you texted me - you made contact with me in every possible way. __I swear, if my mom had a fax machine, you would have faxed me something. It was so, so obvious it was you, Jonas. With messages like 'what did you hear in the office?' I tend to get a clue. Not to mention the way you practically speared me with your eyes that day with Dr. Buckingham._

_The first one was the text message, actually, from an unidentified number. I had no one to go to and ask for advice. My mom was MIA, and did I really have friends?_

'_Keep your mouth shut,' it said. Meanwhile notes appeared on my desks at school, which I didn't even bother reading after second period that first day. They're now crumpled in my trashcan…burning a hole in the bag, weighting it down with secrets,__ lies and deception._

I stood up to stretch, and misplaced my footing on the steps. My toes - the tip of the sole of my shoe - slipped over the edge of a step and hung there. I was transfixed for a moment, just looking blankly down at the two inches of my suspended shoe. _Slipping over the edge. _Is that what Cammie felt like?

No. No, no, no; I was being ridiculous and paranoid. I couldn't relate every single falling leaf to her death, it was not healthy. Repositioning myself on the stairs, I wished it was morning and I could forget all this ever happened to me.

_I eventually switched emails, but you found me again…so quickly, too. I really would like to know where you got all that information. I guess you're taking it to the grave, though, huh? Ha, ha, ha. Yeah, I'd know about that._

_As I was saying. You were really scaring me, Jonas. This, your incessant 'shut up or I'll kill you' attitude, was driving me absolutely bonkers. You knew everything! - absolutely everything! - about me, about everyone_. _Of course this was an entirely new scale; nothing at all compared to Grant's flimsy, perverted stalker tendencies. You were a real creeper, Jonas._

_Maybe that's why I couldn't stand up to you. _

_No, instead you had to approach me face-to-face._

_Flashback to that day: You, me, and the library._

_I was lounging around after school, minding my own business,__ hanging around at my favorite computer, the one with the abnormally large keyboard and really slow mouse. You walked up behind me - startled me, in fact, and I jumped._

"_I'm sorry," you murmured in that smooth voice of yours, "did I scare you?"_

"_No," I replied curtly, not especially wanting to speak with you. "I'm fine."_

_You smiled and drew up a chair next to me, your posture perfect as you flashed me those uber-white teeth. Then the toothy grin fell away - and your expression darkened as you surveyed me. "So…" you started off. I braced myself for a complete interrogation and wished this day had never come. "I know you got my messages."_

_Your voice was low, dangerous and intimidating, just the way you liked it. I took a deep breath to steady myself before replying, "Yeah. I did." I wondered if you were going to hurt me, then I wildly thought of the elderly librarian having a heart attack when she found me bleeding on the carpet. I banished these thoughts as best I could - after all, you wouldn't really hurt me, right?_

_Maybe I was wrong._

"_I need to know how much you heard that day in the office. I need to know__ right now Cammie_._ Do you understand me?" I had trouble meeting your eyes, but I did it anyway. They were the sharpest, clearest blue I'd ever seen. A flash of silver distracted me as you reached for your pocket…_

A _knife_? He threatened her with a knife. What a…

"_Yes," I whispered, too shocked to formulate a plan. "I-I didn't hear anything. I don't know why you're threatening me."_

_Your eyes darkened __as you shoved your hands deeper into your pockets, sufficiently hiding the shiny__ pocketknife I'd seen flashing in the light. Vaguely, I wondered how you'd snuck that in here, but the majority of my concentration was trained on your reaction. You rolled your pretty eyes and shifted your weight on the plastic chair._

_You sighed and leaned forward so our faces were so close I could count the flecks of gray in your eyes. My heart thumped__ out of control, my adrenaline spiked, and I tensed under your intense, too-close scrutiny. "I will hurt you," you breathed, eyes sliding out of focus as you stared past me at something I would never see._

_Considering my entire being was screaming at me to run!, run!, run! as fast as I could, it was a miracle I rose from my seat so slowly. Our eyes stayed locked __as I hastily grabbed my abandoned English paper and shut off the__ browsers on the computer. I finally glanced away as I scooped up my backpack and power-walked__ out the door._

_You didn't move. You just watched me go._

_Little did I know, you had a bigger plan…it took a week to finally execute._

Please don't tell me he used that knife on you, Cammie. How does someone think that's okay to threaten someone…although, it's not that different from others I know. He's worse; Jonas doesn't have an excuse - other than being an absolute psychopath. "Please don't hurt her," I mumbled aloud, lacing my fingers together and squeezing. She'd been through enough.

_I was walking to the library. I hadn't talked to you since that day, and you hadn't deliberately run into me. Our little meeting was sliding to the back of my less-paranoid mind - that is, until the day I decided to go back to the library. I'd finished my homework earlier, and it was painfully dull at my house then. So…I took a walk. I didn't get very far before I was intercepted._

_You didn't bother to follow me down the street or anything. No. Instead, you appeared quite suddenly to my right, stalking down the sidewalk like a predator. We were across the street from the library. The roads were mostly empty, with the majority of adults being at work. I did glance around to see if anyone was watching - that was my first instinct. They weren't._

_I'm almost glad you didn't waste time - you didn't toy with me. It made everything faster and less painful._

"_Cammie," you began. "You haven't told me what you overheard. I don't know if you know something dangerous. I gave you an entire week." You were standing in front of me, in a black sweatshirt with your hands shoved in your pockets and crooked glasses perched on your nose. They gave off a twisted illusion of a psychotic nerd - I shivered._

"_I already said I didn't hear anything," I murmured. "Can you leave me alone now?"_

_Jonas didn't back away. Instead he stepped closer, so we were almost touching. I shut my eyes and tried to block out the pounding of blood in my ears and the tingling in my feet urging me to bolt. You're just a sadist, Jonas; I can stand up to you._

_Unfortunately next thing I knew his hands were emerging from his pockets - and the__ knife along with them. I stepped back, my knees turning to jelly as the Earth tipped on its axis. "J-Jonas?" I stumbled. Was he really going to hurt me?_

_He looked at me long and hard, with those __blue eyes, before he spoke. "I can't take chances. Chances are what get you killed in my line of work, Cam. You must've figured it out by now. I__f I were you I'd have called the cops."_

_You were rambling, Jonas; you were chattering off about something I didn't understand. All I could see were the wheels in your head, whirring away as you fiddled with the killer weapon. The early evening sun was cooling down and I shivered as you frowned. "I really don't know what you're talking about," I wheedled, desperate now as he inched closer._

_He opened his mouth to ague, then thought better of it - instead, he stepped forward and, in a flash, had the knife pressed against my shoulder, held steady against my bare skin. The cool metal sent __sparks of adrenaline through my bloodstream, and my breath caught. No. No. Please, please, please, I don't know what you're talking about!, I thought. Don't kill me!_

My mind went blank. Every thought flew out of my head. Jonas was really going to hurt her, he had the knife drawn and -

"_Tell me, Cammie," he ordered, irises going flat as he increased pressure on the knife. I tried to step away but he grabbed my other shoulder in a tight grip._

_I squeezed my eyes shut as a searing pain stabbed me, right along the knife's edge. "Stop," I murmured. "I don't know anything. Let me go!" Jerking out of his grip, I stumbled backwards. He caught my arm again, except this time raising the knife to my chest. It glinted crimson with blood - my stomach would churn later, but right then I was too terrified. You scared me, Jonas._

_My knees wobbling, I yanked myself away from his crushing grip. Sliding out of your__ horrifying embrace, I stumbled backwards, turned, and ran. My vision pounded with my footsteps, speeding to match the rhythm of my heart. I could hear your footsteps, too, Jonas - following me down the empty street._

"_I'm a hacker, Cammie!" you screamed at me, and I risked a glance backwards as the street corner raced into sight. Your eyes were maniacal and glazed-over; the eyes of someone too far gone to save. A hacker - the title would sink in later, but then the only thing I could think about was losing my tail, _AKA,_ you. I hurtled across the street, you right on my heels._

With a horrible lurch in my stomach, I remembered what came next. I saw the evidence at school - I didn't need Cammie Morgan to explain what happened…

_I thought for sure you were going to catch me. I thought, 'oh, no, no, no, I'm dead, he's gonna kill me,' and the surge of fear I felt was more disturbing than__ you and your knife. The thing is, you probably would have caught me, Jonas, if you'd been a bit more careful. But you were just a little too late - a little too slow - and a little too fast, too, because the car didn't see you at all until you streaked across the windshield. _

_I didn't look back. I heard the squeal of tires, your gasp of pain, car doors slamming. Tears blurred my vision and I hardly knew where I was going (for once) but I didn't slow down. Almost home, almost safe, oh God how would I explain this to my mom? Confusion, pain, fear…regret…if anyone should've gotten hurt, it was me. You, getting hit by that car, was not good luck for me. It just made me feel so, so much worse. Why couldn't you have just left me alone for once?_

_No one benefit from your sadist-tendencies, not even yourself. Get your head screwed on straight, Jonas._

It was on the Roseville news, the story spread all over school. Jonas was the celebrity of the week - I know the official story; he was out for a jog and didn't see the car. He got hit, and in the process of falling was sliced with his own pocketknife. What a joke for Cammie _that _must've been. Cut himself with his own knife…she wishes…

_I'll have you know I still wear the scar from that knife, Jonas…what an absolute idiot. I won't miss you when I'm gone._

The tape was over.

Jonas Mackie: Psychopath Hacker With A Knife. This town was unbelievable. That high school alone was absolutely atrocious - I was halfway repulsed, the other half stuck in limbo between humor and horror. The next tape could be me, though. My nonexistent reputation could be next on the chopping block.

So I stood up from the chilled library steps, stepped down the washed-out sidewalk, and inserted the next tape. _Maybe I'll get lucky._

* * *

"_One day, you'll fall down_

_And there won't be anyone."_


End file.
